


Unwind

by scorchedtrees



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, rating for safety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchedtrees/pseuds/scorchedtrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Petra helps Levi relax, and one time he returns the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sarah/[pasdechat](http://pasdechat.tumblr.com) on tumblr :)

_one._

The window is open, the air outside chilly instead of cool in the dark early hours of the morning. He’s burnt through one candle already and the second is halfway gone, wax dripping down the sides as the light flickers against the walls, casting elongated shadows across the floor. His hand hurts, his neck aches, he’s been sitting here for three hours and seventeen minutes (give or take a few seconds), and he is finally, _finally_ done signing the stack of reports Erwin handed him five hours ago.

He sets his pen down with a sigh, looking at the clock hanging on the wall in front of him. In three hours or so the sun will be a distant glow on the horizon and the soldiers in the building will begin to stir; in four hours the dining hall will be full and there will be people knocking on his door, handing off papers, requesting his assistance when yet another dumbass goes and does something stupid none of the incompetent little shits can deal with.

He is wondering if he should just sleep in his office or if he should even sleep at all when, to his surprise, a quiet knock sounds on his door.

"Come in," he says, clearing his throat when his voice catches, hoarse with disuse.

The door opens a crack and someone slips in. Orange hair, short stature, uniform jacket neatly pressed—it’s Petra Ral.

"Captain," she says, and he notices that she is holding a tray with a cup and a pot of something steaming in her hands. "I thought you might still be up."

He probably doesn’t hide his surprise very well—he blames it on the early hour of the morning. “Why are you awake, Ral? You should be in bed.”

"I couldn’t sleep," she says with a shrug. "I saw your light was still on and I thought you might like something to drink."

He stares at her for a moment, oddly affected by her thoughtfulness. Of all the new recruits every year in the Scouting Legion, only a handful do not give him a wide berth whenever they see him; hardly anyone greets him or asks after his wellbeing. Petra Ral is the first one he can remember to actually care and, not only that, do something about it.

The gesture is very kind, and he almost hates to tell her, but—”I just finished,” he says, nodding at the neat pile of reports on his desk. “I don’t need coffee anymore.”

But Petra shakes her head, stepping further into the room. “This isn’t coffee,” she says, looking around for a place to put the tray down. “It’s chrysanthemum tea. It doesn’t have any caffeine in it; it’s very light.”

He moves a few folders aside on his desk and she sets the tray down, overturning the cup so she can pour the drink. “Where did you get chrysanthemum tea?” he wants to know. It isn’t a popular commodity in the Scouting Legion, or anywhere between Wall Maria and Wall Sina, really.

"I brought it from home," she explains, placing the teapot down and sliding the cup over to him. Steam wafts from the pale amber liquid, its faint aroma reaching his nose; it is pleasantly fragrant.

He reaches for the cup and lifts it to his lips. “It’s hot,” she warns before he takes a sip, and such an obvious statement from anyone else would have earned that person a withering glare at the very least, but Levi remembers the time and only nods once before drinking.

It is hot but it does not burn going down his throat; the flavor is mild, more a subtle hint than anything, but it fills his mouth with a soothing aftertaste, lingering in the back of his throat. He blinks and takes another sip, then another—the tea is surprisingly refreshing, clearing out the faint ache in the back of his head, spreading warmth throughout his body, relaxing the tension in his shoulders.

"Do you like it, sir?" Petra wants to know, smiling tentatively at him.

He looks back at her over the rim of his cup—her hands folded behind her back, expression somewhat shy, eyes hopeful. He can see the traces of fatigue though, lines of faded sleep etched into her face, the hints of bags under her eyes, and he wonders why the hell she is still up, and doing something nice for him to boot.

"It’s good," he says, raising the cup to his lips again and swallowing the remaining liquid. He sets the cup down to pour more and in an instant she is in front of him, ready to help.

Without thinking, he catches her fingers before they touch the ceramic. Startled, she blinks at him, and he looks calmly back at her—her fingers are warm, the skin of her palm soft, and after a moment he releases her hand.

"I can do it myself," he says, picking up the teapot. "Thank you."

He is a man of little words, but she seems to understand what he means anyway; her smile broadens as she steps back, her hands now hanging loosely by her sides. “You’re welcome, sir.”

—

_two._

He has been to many meetings before—small discussions in huddled groups behind abandoned warehouses about how they were going to split the rations, larger gatherings in deserted alleyways where people spoke freely about who and how they were going to kill, meetings around tables in the dining hall where Hanji spoke about research and Erd and Auruo flicked spitballs at each other, and he would only sit up more attentively when he noticed the sole focus of Petra’s gaze on whoever was speaking.

Erwin’s meetings are more formal though; all the highly-ranked members of the Scouting Legion and their squads are present, and in the midst of all those soldiers, Levi feels he has to prove something—he doesn’t give a fuck what others think of him, but he is a captain and a short one at that, and the looks he receives and returns with triple the disdain are not something he is particularly fond of.

What irritates him the most about some of these meetings, he has come to realize after attending a few of them, is that sometimes people throw far too many complicated terms around when simpler ones will suffice. He is not stupid, but the only education he received was far from conventional, and when there are too many voices speaking far too quickly, their words become a jumbled mess of meaning that takes too much brainpower to untangle. Sometimes he does not bother and instead just sits there, as stiff and straight as possible, glaring like he understands perfectly but disagrees strongly with everything being said.

Coming out of one such meeting with a certifiable headache, Levi heads straight for the kitchen, thinking a cup of coffee might help clear his mind. He still has reports to go over, forms to sign, and he wonders when the title of _humanity’s strongest_ became synonymous with paperwork.

"Captain, you’re back!"

He blinks and stops in the doorway to the dining hall, his eyes finally catching up with his feet. Petra is sprawled across a chair in the corner of the room, her feet propped up on another, an open book in her hands. Pens and papers are strewn about the table before her.

"What are you doing?"

She looks slightly sheepish but does not bother to move. “No one’s around, sir,” she says, “and I don’t feel like going to bed yet.”

He eyes her feet pointedly and she must notice the direction of his gaze because she adds, “I just showered, sir. I’m clean.”

Her hair is still damp, her shoes on the ground, so he does not ask. She twists slightly in her chair to face him, setting her book aside for the moment. “Did you just come back from a meeting?”

He nods and her face brightens. “You must be tired. Sit down! Do you need anything?”

He nearly says, “A cup of coffee,” but he blinks and looks at her—really looks at her. She is smiling, lounging comfortably in the chair wearing a loose shirt and a pair of black pants, bits of hair plastered to her neck; she is clearly ready to relax and he should not be asking her to run around doing errands for him. She is his soldier, not his servant.

Feeling something that might be a trickle of shame, he shakes his head and heads into the kitchen himself.

When he emerges ten minutes later with the cup of coffee he wanted, Petra is still there, now sitting up, staring thoughtfully at a slip of paper while tapping a pen against her chin. She nods at him when he comes in and resumes writing.

He seats himself opposite her, watching her brow furrow in concentration and her lips twitch as she mouths words to herself. There is something oddly fascinating about the angle of her neck, the dark orange of her hair and the shadows of her eyelashes against her cheeks, and he only realizes he is staring when she stares back inquisitively.

“Is something wrong, sir?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he says, and takes a big gulp of his coffee.

He must have made a face because she giggles a little, dropping her pen to prop her chin on her fist and grin at him. “Does it not taste as good as usual?” she wants to know.

It is true, he realizes after a beat, that there is something off about the flavor of the coffee. Perhaps he is too used to Petra’s brew, because he can’t quite enjoy his own.

“No,” he says, and takes another sip.

“If you want I can make—”

“No, it’s alright. Stay.”

“Are you sure—”

“Yes. Continue writing to your… father?”

“Yes, my father,” she says, and after a long, hesitant look at him he has no idea how to decipher, she goes back to her letter.

He finishes his cup of coffee within five minutes and glances at the clock hanging on the wall; it is past ten now and he should get back to his office, get started on those piles of reports, but he finds something nice about just sitting here, doing nothing, the faint scratch of pen on paper the only sound in the room. The coffee leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks he must look rather creepy, sitting across from his subordinate and watching her write, but he feels rather peaceful, the meeting he just attended far away from his thoughts, and when she glances up from her paper and sees him looking at her, she offers him a small smile and he finds himself almost smiling back.

—

_three._

Being a captain of the Scouting Legion means there are certain duties he has to fulfill—leading soldiers is only a small part of the position. A higher ranking in any military branch requires many other things such as signatures on countless sheets of official paper, insincere letters written to people he really couldn’t give a shit about if he tried, presence during meetings that make him glad he was never forced to attend school as a child because how the hell could he sit through a whole day of something like this?

But the worst part, Levi thinks, of being a captain of the Scouting Legion is the fact that he is expected to attend all the social functions held in Sina every year, where the king and the nobility like to pretend they actually give a damn about anyone but themselves.

As someone who grew up on the streets, he finds polite society even more stifling than the military barracks or the wings of freedom on his back, and he always has a hard time not making a terrible impression on the attendees of each gala or whatever the hell those events are that Erwin makes him attend.

He tries to keep his mouth shut for the most part and stand in the corner, but the whole _humanity’s strongest_ thing seems to attract far more people than he likes, and it is all he can do to lessen his glare and speak without cursing to each man trying to curry favor with him, each woman smiling up (and just as often down) at him through their lashes.

By the end of one such night, he has more than had enough, and when he gets back to the hotel at a time most people should be sleeping, he finds himself in quite a foul mood. His back feels stiff, his shoulders ache, and he wants nothing more than to go back to his room and sleep.

So of course when he is finally standing in front of his door, he finds that the key is missing from his pockets.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he growls, digging deeper, rifling through each pocket both inside and outside the suit jacket he is wearing. He unbuttons the jacket and takes it off to shake it around, sticks his hands into the back pockets of his pants and even his shoes, but the key appears to have gone missing.

He is standing there contemplating homicide (he blames the late hour) when the door next to his opens a crack and Petra peeks out. “Captain,” she says, rubbing her eyes blearily. “You’re back.”

She was one of the lucky ones who got to leave early, but apparently being captain also means he had to stay until the event was over. Her hair is mussed, eyes heavy with sleep, and he wonders if he woke her up with his banging and cursing—and why, if so, he feels bad about it.

“Can’t find my key,” he mutters, and she blinks.

“Can’t you go downstairs and get a new one? Sir?”

“There was no one behind the reception desk.”

“Maybe the person just went out for a moment and will be back soon. You might want to check again, sir.”

“Don’t want to climb the stairs.”

He’s being ridiculous and he knows it, but he’s tired and grumpy and he is not in the mood to cooperate with Petra’s attempts to help. After a beat she sighs, then opens her door wider and beckons him in.

He follows her inside and waits until the door is shut to collapse on the chair next to her bed with a loud groan. “You’re lucky you don’t usually have to go to these things. Fucking nobles and their fucking parties.”

“I thought it was sort of fun,” she says mildly, sitting on the edge of her bed. He notices that the fabric of her nightgown is not entirely opaque and he keeps his eyes trained on her face, fighting the urge to take a closer look. She is his friend and he will not be inappropriate about this situation.

“Go to ten more and you’ll start missing the Titans.”

“I doubt that,” she says, though the corners of her mouth quirk in amusement. “My feet hurt a bit though. Standing around in high heels isn’t fun.”

“My feet and my back _and_ my shoulders hurt,” Levi grumbles, though he knows very well he’s being immature. He can keep his mouth shut about his pains and aches from training and expeditions with no trouble, but he thinks there is nothing useful to humanity about attending these events so he sees no point in keeping quiet with his complaints.

“You train every day,” Petra says, as if reading his mind.

“My shoulders hurt worse right now than from training.”

“You’re being a baby.”

He crosses his arms and scowls, slouching further in his chair. “My shoulders fucking hurt.”

She sighs, leaning over, and he has a very hard time keeping his eyes on her face because the front of her nightgown has fallen slightly, revealing more creamy skin dotted with freckles and the beginnings of a subtle curve, and he swallows, telling himself to _stop looking stop looking right now you idiot_ —

Then her hands are on his shoulders, grip tight at first, almost painful, as she rubs circles into his bones with her fingertips. He sits in the chair, exceedingly still, and stares at her as her movements turn gentler, her hands making broader motions, pushing and squeezing the tension from his muscles, and he feels the knots in his shoulders beginning to loosen as she massages them away.

He quickly gets used to it, the relaxing pressure, Petra hovering above him, her breath warm on his forehead, one of her legs barely brushing his, and the sudden loss of her warmth when she pulls away is startling. He blinks up at her, rolling his shoulders, and realizes the muscles are a lot less stiff.

“Better?” she wants to know, smiling down at him, a trace of teasing in her voice, but he does not miss the soft look in her eyes or the faint pink in her cheeks, and after a moment he licks his lips and nods.

“Yeah. A lot better.”

—

_and one._

He has just settled down for the night, is sitting in bed and about to blow out the candle, when his door bangs open and Petra storms in.

He frowns at her; he set training time for six the following morning, just to see if things like lack of sleep and semi-dark conditions will affect his squad’s performance, but Petra is still in her uniform and—is that blood on her face?

“What did you do to yourself?” he demands as she strips off her jacket and her boots and plops onto the edge of his bed. He pulls his covers up slightly because he just washed them but—“Why aren’t you asleep yet?”

“I’m fine,” she says airily with a wave of her hand. “I’m just tired.”

“Why is there blood on your face?”

“I was training with Auruo,” she explains. “It’s his blood. Got him in the nose by accident. But he’s okay, don’t worry. He looks a lot worse than me though.” Her grin is fierce.

Levi rubs his temples and sits up straight; sleep does not seem very plausible right now with Petra here—covered in dirt and bruises to boot. “So why are you here, instead of going to bed? Your _own_ bed,” he adds pointedly. “We have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Thought I would enjoy your company,” she says sweetly, and he scowls.

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Come on,” she pouts, sitting up too and looking at him imploringly. He clenches his teeth and focuses his gaze somewhere past her head because he can never say no to those big brown eyes—

“I’m _tired_ , Levi. Entertain me.”

“The only entertainment I can think of involves both of us being clean and being able to wake up late tomorrow,” he informs her.

“I’m too wound up to sleep,” she admits. “I don’t want to go to bed yet.”

He eyes her—perched on the edge of his bed, hair messy and eyes shining with enthusiasm. No, she is definitely not someone on the verge of sleep, though there are a few bruises forming on her arms and smudges of dirt on her—

“You know what?” Levi sighs, resigning himself to not much rest that night, and slips out from under the covers to head for the washroom adjoining his room. “You need a bath.”

“I don’t want to sleep yet—”

“Who said anything about sleeping?” He stops in the doorway and looks at her, sitting cross-legged on his bed in her dirty clothes and grinning, and shakes his head. “Baths are relaxing. I’ll draw some water for you. You can talk about how you pummeled Auruo or something.”

“Ooh, are you going to bathe with me?”

“ _No._ That would not be relaxing. This is to calm you down and maybe make you ready for bed.”

“Where we can—”

“ _No._ ”

“I was going to say sleep.”

“Fine. Yes. Sleep.” He glares at her, watching her practically bounce with energy on the side of his bed, and shakes his head again. “You’re annoying.”

“Thanks!”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“You love me too much to insult me.”

He twists his lips to prevent them from settling in a fond expression as he goes to fill the bathtub. He can deny it if he wants but he knows she is right.


End file.
